


the sun that rules

by e_p_hart



Category: Historical RPF, Original Work
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:29:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1304917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e_p_hart/pseuds/e_p_hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When we arrived, they thought we had returned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun that rules

When we arrived, they thought we had returned.  
  
On their knees, genuflecting, crying out for our bright searchlights, reaching to us in fear and in hope. They welcomed us with songs and shouts, bells and guns, fire and with silence. Reports returned to us from the others, and they had received the same greeting. Everywhere was awe and desperation and joy--  
  
What did they want of us?  
  
What did they expect?  
  
It was my job to inspect them through scientific, medical eyes. I fount my sympathy cutting through my natural disgust for their soiled, dumb forms, especially when they addressed me with the highest words for respect their simple minds could offer. My white uniform fascinated them; the medical scanners frightened them, although they would tolerate them if I assured them of their safety. With only a few words, they closed their eyes and submitted.  
  
My superiors received all the medical information they could ever need; but I remained dissatisfied: what did they think we were?  
  
When I asked one, they seemed confused. Was I questioning their faith? No, I was not. I was simply trying to see our greatness through their eyes, since I had become, it seemed, disillusioned with it.   
  
I was greeted with wide eyes and white faces.   
  
My superiors told me to stop my inquires and let these creatures be. ‘Do your job,’ they told me. ‘That is all you are here for.’  
  
I did my job.  
  
On a leave, instead of jumping forward home, I evaded the officers and slipped down among our subjects. I lost myself among their diseased streets and crowds.  


* * *

  
  
I noticed him because he did not notice me.   
  
Everywhere I had been, they stared and pointed to me, recognizing me for one of their supposed ‘returned.’ They approached me, offering their homes, their food, their goods, themselves. I asked them careful questions to which they responded without hesitation: who they were, what they did, whom they loved, what they thought of me, of us, of their fellows.   
  
But this one did not notice me.   
  
I sat in the corner of one of their cafes, a drink untouched before me on the table. I was in shadow, which explains and does not explain why he could not see and recognize my uniform, my shape. He entered the cafe like a storm, hair dishevelled, clothes ragged and torn and above all dirty, face roughly shaven but smudged, hands covered with bright daubs of color and a chalky dust. He ordered some drink and while he waited for it, he glanced around and ran a hand through his hair. Colorful streaks were left behind, and I smiled involuntarily, knowing this would catch his eye.   
  
It did not.   
  
He received his drink, and took it outside to a table on the street.  
  
I moved slowly from the shadows and stood in the window, watching him. He was sketching something very quickly into a little book with a rough pencil of a soft black mineral.   
  
The owner asked me if there was anything I needed. I asked him who that man was. His name, I learned, was Michelangelo, and he was a painter and a sculptor, among other things. As of then, the owner added disapprovingly, he was a good-for-naught who did odd jobs to get by.   
  
I thanked him and approached the painters’ table.   
  
‘Yes,’ he said, without looking up.   
  
‘May I see what you are drawing?’  
  
‘I am rather busy.’  
  
‘I only wish to see it for a moment.’  
  
He sighed and drew his pencil away from the page lovingly. ‘As you say, sir,’ he said; ‘only a moment.’ He finally looked up at me, and he handed me the book. ‘You,’ he whispered.  
  
I surveyed the sketch: for all its roughness, it was, I thought, very beautiful.   
  
‘Please sit down,’ Michelangelo said. ‘May I get you something to drink? Please forgive me my rudeness; I did not recognize you at first.’  
  
I sat. ‘I am not thirsty,’ I said. ‘I heard you are a painter, a sculptor, an artist.’  
  
‘I try,’ he said.   
  
‘I have not had much chance to see a good deal of artwork, besides that which your churches offer. I would very much enjoy the opportunity to see your own, if this sketch is any indication of your skill.’  
  
‘Certainly,’ he said, and stood, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste. ‘Please, I would love for you to see my work...’  
  
‘Yes?’  
  
‘What may I call you?’  
  
‘You may call me,’ I said, ‘Peer.’  
  


* * *

  
  
His tower workshop was a wonder to behold. It overlooked a body of water, and the scent of the water permeated the walls of flat gray stone. The tower contained paints and pencils, blocks of stone, paper and wood and canvases, string and knives and tools and candles-- wax candles scattered everywhere.  
  
‘I sometimes work long in the night,’ he explained. He moved around jerkily. ‘Please. My finished works are through here.’ The smell of drying paint was almost too strong, but the images are wondrous: beautiful beings and landscapes, expression perfect and not, each one whole and simple and yet ambiguous. ‘They are not very good, I am afraid, compared to the actual idea. They are wonderful for my patrons; but you...’  
  
‘I think they are amazing,’ I said.  
  
He flinched. ‘Please. These paintings-- I did not know what to draw, who--’ He stopped. ‘Please, will you sit for me?’  
  
He-- He wished to draw me, paint me. I nearly laughed.  
  
‘Very well,’ I said.   
  
Michelangelo sat me in a chair in a round room, surrounded by candles and by mirrors, so that the room gleamed and shone warmly, and he took up pencil and brush and painted for an eternity and then some, and still he did not tire. The sun disappeared and the moon rose and the flames burned and the candles slowly died as he painted.   
  
I found myself asleep.  


* * *

  
  
When I awoke, I was lying on a soft bed, and still he painted fiercely, with small sharp glances toward where I lay. The candles were nearly all melted, with only one or two still surviving.   
  
I approached him silently. He jumped when he noticed me standing before him. ‘I did not see you,’ he said with a small gasp.  
  
‘May I see?’ I asked, motioning to the paintings.  
  
‘Ah,’ he said, hunching inwardly. ‘I would rather you did not. They are not finished yet, and not very good besides--’  
  
‘Please,’ I said. I made as though to move to view the nearest canvas, and he grabbed my arm-  
  
  
  
We both glanced down.  
  
‘I apologize,’ he said, face coloring. He did not move away. ‘I am not ready for you to see them yet. Please. Peer.’  
  
‘I must leave at dawn,’ I said.   
  
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘At dawn.’  
  


* * *

   
  
Michelangelo bid me lay back down, and I fell asleep once more. I awoke to see him crouched above me. He had washed and his dark hair hung wetly around his face. The scent of water was there, and the scent of deceased candles; it was not dark, not light. He kissed me. His mouth was soft.  
  
After a long moment, I pushed him away and stood.   
  
‘I must leave now,’ I said.  
  
‘But--’  
  
‘Michelangelo,’ I said, ‘I am not what you think I am.’  
  
‘Are you not an angel of God, sent from Heaven?’ he demanded. ‘You came from the sky, bringing your magic, your peace and light, your beauty. My paintings, they are perfect, because you are perfect! My art does not lie, Peer.’  
  
I took the nearest easel and turned it around. I recognized myself, with wings, holding the arm of a man attached to a cross. The man bore Michelangelo’s face. I turned back to him.  
  
When I was training for that mission, my advisers warned me that those I would be dealing with were simple and easily dazzled. ‘Any higher technology is inseparable, in their minds, from magic,’ they told me. I did not understand this. Magic? Who believed in magic?  
  
He stared at me.   
  
‘We are no angels from any god,’ I said. ‘I do not know this god. We are a reconnaissance mission from the year 4021, to help you evolve.’  
  
His mouth was open, his face confused. ‘You are-- a man? Just a man?’  
  
‘Not like you,’ I said. ‘Not at all.’  
  
He rested his head in his hands, hiding his face from me. ‘I thought God had returned to heal the earth, to punish the wicked, to reward His--’  
  
‘No.’ And I realized that he was not alone in his error. That was what they all believed: that a god had returned from Heaven to save them. I shook my head. ‘No.’  
  
‘But my paintings!’ he cried. ‘Art does not lie!’  
  
I took all the rest in: my face on each, beings winged and beautiful, bearing messages, surveying battles, slaying ugly beasts, dancing, singing, playing instruments, sleeping--  
  
‘I must leave,’ I said, turning away. It was all too much, this knowledge. I was only a lowly medical officer, nothing special; I was not even graded high enough to breed. This artist-- wanted too much of me. ‘Thank you for showing me your work.’ As I left, I heard loud crashes and rips; and when I returned to the ship I checked the historical databases and discovered that I was correct: Michelangelo was not known for his paintings of angels.

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this in church on Sunday. The first line. Is it. Michelangelo came about in the recital Monday night. I finished it in Theory. I did this instead of homework and things I needed to do. This Michelangelo is my own invention. There is indeed more to the story, but I do not think it will be revealed, as I have not written it down and have no plans to write it down.
> 
> As usual, let me know if anything too crazy jumps out at you.
> 
> Title is from Michelangelo's sonnets, "Orazioni tre in Salmodia Metafisicale congiunte  
> insieme", which he wrote from prison. It is the fifth one, which begins "Help, mighty Shepherd! Save Thy lamp, Thy hound". The lines that apply to this are as follows:
> 
> "For if my light, my voice, are cast away--  
> If sinfulness in these Thy gifts be found--  
> The sun that rules in heaven is disallowed.  
> Thou knowest without wings I cannot fly:  
> Give me the wings of grace to speed my flight  
> Mine eyes are always turned to greet Thy light:  
> Is it my crime if still it pass me by?"
> 
> So arrogant. But true.


End file.
